


Behind the Aura

by BrainVomit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, potential suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrainVomit/pseuds/BrainVomit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hours later John stirred slowly from his darkness, a familiar scent relaxing his body back into sleep. He was warm. He was safe. He was home.<br/>Sherlock.<br/>The bed smelled of cigarettes and London smog and mint shampoo. And it hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Aura

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This was more or less inspired by Burqa leaked from Lady Gaga's artpop album.  
> "Do you wanna see me naked, lover?  
> Do you wanna peak underneath the cover?  
> Do you wanna see the girl who lives behind the aura, behind the aura?" 
> 
> The lyrics can take a literal meaning with the title of the song, but I think they can also be understood metaphorically, letting someone see you with out a wall, without a shield. And that's the whole point of this, Sherlock and John (especially Sherlock) loosing that barrier and letting someone in. 
> 
> 2) The rating will most likely go up as subsequent chapters are posted.
> 
> 3) Please forgive me for any grammatical errors.

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock broke into John’s bare flat to stand in the doorway, moon and streetlamp light filtering through the curtains, dancing geometrically across the thrashing soldier in the single bed.

The room reeked of cheap whiskey that couldn’t stifle the nightmares that inevitably returned after the day in front of St. Barts.

John wasn’t in the desert rattled by explosions and bullets, clutching his shoulder, gritty blood-soaked sand beneath his body. This was a nightmare Sherlock didn’t have to visualize as he caressed soothing tones from his violin back at Baker Street. He lived this, felt it, and saw John’s face as his feet lost purchase with the brick and his body gained contact with the sidewalk.

As he turned to leave, joints stiff from the hours of stillness, John reached out, eyes closed and Sherlock knew he was at the edge ready to jump for the millionth time.

John was constant, passed out from alcohol each time Sherlock opened the paint peeling window by the alley. 

He would thrash, sometimes highlighted from the London light or the soft white from above the sink making John seem frail and less than he once was. 

This time, this time was different. 

Next to the sandy blond hair sprinkled with too much silver and his now paled tanned face with lines framing his eyes as they moved ceaselessly under the lids, sat the SIG, looking like a child clutching a toy as they entered the foreign world of sleep. The barrel barely touched parted lips and sat on his teeth—hot breath fogging up the dark metal with each exhale, thumb gently resting on the trigger. 

The instant it took to realize where the cold, unforgiving metal sat creaked new panic through Sherlock’s chest. 

No. Not Sherlock’s blood on the sidewalk but John’s tissue and skull fragments sticking to the wall, hot and wet and oozing through Sherlock’s fingers. John’s lips irony and bloody metallic against his own, trembling, as if gun powder kisses could fix this. 

But John hadn’t fired. Just testing the idea of a bullet passing behind his teeth, the alcohol taking his consciousness before the trigger could be squeezed. 

It was a toxic weight in his hand, the magazine freed from the grip containing a single round. Sherlock flung it across the floor away from flesh and softness and bone. Away from everything that made up a human being. It cracked the baseboard-less plaster with an unsatisfactory thump. 

His John hadn’t awoken from the swift movement, audible thump, or Sherlock’s shadow cast on his face, darkening the stream of light from the sink. 

His John was a stone and a half too thin, wooly jumper hanging loose on his chest underneath the blanket, jeans easily not hugging his hips like they one had, a belt needed to chinch up the extra space. 

His John’s warmth was gone, always looking cold as the alcohol induced blackness fought against the nightmares usually losing to their fidgety movements. 

That was when the first tear fell, soaking into his scarf as he caressed John’s cheek in hand, thumb gracing over his bottom lip. 

Sherlock climbed in—coat, scarf, long limbs and angles, holding his John, tears never stopping as he buried his face in the sandy hair or breathed raggedly in the crook of John’s neck just above the clavicle. 

Those tears turn to pleas as he pressed jumper-clad John closer in his arms. 

“I had to I had to John I had to,” There was no stopping the ache that consumed his entire being, head resting where the SIG had, lips resting against John where the metal had taken the warmth from his lips, tasting the tears that covered his own face. 

He loved John. 

He loved John the second it took for the bullet to pierce the cabbie’s shoulder. 

He loved John as he nodded silently in the pool, humidity turning their skin dewy, knowing their deaths were worth the end of a criminal mastermind. 

He loved John from the roof, thankful not to see the panic in his eyes accompany the shake in his voice, the pain cutting deep enough to where he forced his muscles to move, every fiber of his being seemingly glued to the brick, to the cases, to John. 

The tears eventually slowed leaving John’s hair and jumper and pillow salty and wet. It did nothing to sooth the rawness of Sherlock’s soul. 

Through aching sinuses and a layer of whiskey, Sherlock could smell home—wool and tea and John. Baker Street was filled with John. 

Through swollen eyes he stared at the white cracked plaster wall that pressed against John’s back and not far from his own face. As the sun rose white to orange and into yellow, light reflected into the flat off the building across the street. 

Sherlock untangled their limbs from the single bed and with a kiss to John’s temple scurried into the sunlight. 

Hours later John stirred slowly from his darkness, a familiar scent relaxing his body back into sleep. He was warm. He was safe. He was home. Sherlock. 

Sherlock. 

The bed smelled of cigarettes and London smog and mint shampoo. And it hurt. 

It hurt because it was unfair. 

Three years and John was imagining his smell against the pillow. 

If he was still enough he could keep the hangover headache from surfacing. The light filtered red through the skin of his eyelids, keeping this dream, this part of his imagination alive. When he had the courage to open them he would slip harder and faster sinking into a new rock bottom. 

He imagined the dark curls splayed over the light colored pillow case, pale skin and sleep softened eyes framing a delicate half smile. 

John shifted his hand up and he could feel his fingers slowly drag through the soft curls working an appreciative hum from Sherlock’s sleep roughened throat. 

His hand met cold steel and the crumple of paper. 

The weight inside him flips then sinks, filling his gut with a sense of dread and utter hopelessness that filled him before the bottle of whiskey. During when he flirted with SIG, only clipping one round into the magazine. After a few more glasses, only to place it to his temple and it feel foreign. To his chest to feel wrong and then to his lips that felt a little too right. 

Baring the midmorning light, John peaked through his lids and confirmed the firearm keeping him company on the pillow, yellow steno paper vibrant on top. 

“Please don’t,” It read in a too familiar handwriting, three years gone. 

For the first time in his life the SIG felt dangerous in his shaking hands, the weight doing nothing to steady the tremble. 

He pressed the release to the magazine, it falling into his palm light and empty.


End file.
